Friday, March 02, 2007

Here you have these battle-hardened men, so-called soldiers no less, wounded in whatever fashion in the Iraq Civil War, and all they can find the time to do is complain about a couple rats down in the laundry room and roaches in the pudding? Pussies!You'd think nearly getting killed in Baghdad would've taught these girlie-men a thing or two about perspective, like, say, that they're lucky enough just to be alive and that they need to man up, quit whining and keep their mouths shut about the whole thing. Is that a doughnut in you footlocker!? Private Pyle, indeed.

What?! You want a doctor or a nurse practitioner or a nurse or an orderly or the janitor to check in on you more than once a month? What the fuck do you think this place is? The Mayo Clinic? This is Walter Reed, jarhead, not the Ritz Carlton. Christ. They're just bedsores. They'll go away eventually. Or become infected. Either way, beats greasing a dozen civilians in Haditha.

Man. I haven't seen such an out-of-control sense of entitlement since the last time Al Sharpton was clamoring for his mule and 100 acres.

Yeah, yeah. So you served your country. Big fuckin' deal. Just because you've stood on the frontlines and got shot at so that we back home enjoyed the freedom to watch some chick eat bull gonads on Fear Factor doesn't mean we have to serve you 3 squares a day till kingdom come. Grow up. Newsflash!!!: Life isn't only not fair; it's also more fair to some people, a lot like that "more equal" thingie.

So put a sock in it, "marine". Don't come to me with problems; come to me with solutions. America may be a democracy (Is it? Seriously?), but the military ain't. If you didn't want to get wounded in a war then you should've done what thinking people do: get a deferment. I know there wasn't a draft! I'm not retarded. (Hmm…) It doesn't matter. When you're in the military, you accept the consequences of being in the military. And if that means killing women and children or nursing a urine infection for another 3 months, so be it. It's called "soldiering on" for a reason, pantywaist.

Now get out of my sight. You make me sick.

(Hark, what bitter irony rains down like salmonella-tinged manna from the mess hall.)